From Andrić’s bridge at Višegrad - which has endured centuries of human inhumanity - to one of the deepest canyons in Europe where an engineer broke his own bridge to protect the people it connected. Part IV of my five-part series on bridges.
From Andrić’s bridge at Višegrad - which has endured centuries of human inhumanity - to one of the deepest canyons in Europe where an engineer broke his own bridge to protect the people it connected. Part IV of my five-part series on bridges.
In July 1995, more than 8,000 people were murdered in and around Srebrenica, a genocide like nothing Europe had seen since World War II. Ryrie and I walked the rows of tombstones in Potočari, passed shelled and abandoned Bosniak homes in Srebrenica, and amidst the darkness found a family and a glimmer of hope.
For 427 years, Stari Most joined Mostar. In 1993 it fell into the Neretva; in 2004 it rose again, stone by careful stone. But rebuilding a bridge is easier than rebuilding what it carried. Part II of a series on bridges.
I’ve been thinking about perceptions and perspectives quite a bit recently, as I alluded to in my last blog post, questions about what’s going on in our world, near and far, how we look at it, how/can it be better. In a nutshell, I’m guessing a lot of you - regardless perhaps of political ilk […]
I’ve been meaning to write for some time now. There’s a lot to share, ideas and thoughts and concepts and simple ponderings bouncing around in this head of mine. But, it’s a struggle to make sense of them all, to conjure sufficient mental clarity to give form to the amorphous, to make sense of it […]
inspiration, Montenegro, perspective
Read MoreI remember when I first heard the term. Charley Mace and I were a couple pitches up a mellow, fun route in Clear Creek Canyon, trying unsuccessfully to outclimb thunderstorms, and talking about climbing, ego, and the like. One mutual climbing acquaintance kept coming up, one whose ego had come to define his persona, his […]
My paternal great-great grandfather, James T. Norton (1844-1883), was a man of few words. Or, at least that’s what his journal from 1865 indicates. It’s been sitting near my desk for years. I’ve scanned the pages, faded scribbles in pencil recording minute datapoints about each day with little fanfare: weather, movement, rations, commands, engagements. Even […]
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